Out of Africa
by AJ Wesley
Summary: They managed to escape the woods unscathed-or so they thought. When Sam's health begins to decline, Dean searches frantically for the cause and the cure, only to find that they must go back.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: Wow. It's been a long time since I posted. Hope you didn't give up on me. I know I took a little break and wrote a short Hobbit piece, but I still love our boys. And hopefully, I can find my muse again to write more. It has been on vacation for a while. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this fic. Yes, it's a get-Sam, but as I mentioned, I am an equal opportunity whumper. There's some hurt!Dean in here as well. :) Thanks for reading!

**Out of Africa**

_By AJ Wesley_

They were running. Dean wasn't even sure they were going in the right direction. Not that he cared at the moment, as long as it was _away_. Sam was ahead of him by a length, glancing back every so often to make sure Dean was still there. That was one area Dean was never able to best Sam in: running. It was those giraffe legs. But if that made Dean the first target when they were sprinting for their lives, then that was okay, according to Dean's big brother book of rules.

He didn't know where they'd gone wrong on this one. They'd followed the evidence, done the research, and decided it was a cryptid, a…what had Sam called it? A Tirisuk. So they'd come armed to kill it.

It wasn't a Tirisuk.

What they'd found in the middle of Nowhere, Georgia, was a self-proclaimed witch doctor, supposedly descended from the Zulus. Sure, they could have taken him out with a well-placed silver bullet—which was what they were packing for the Tirisuk—but Sam had a problem with ventilating a human being, even one who had murdered a bunch of innocent people. All right_, allegedly _murdered a bunch of innocent people. They had no real proof, just personal belongings that seemed out of place scattered throughout the guy's cabin. That was enough in Dean's book.

But, truthfully, having Jiminy Cricket for a brother had Dean second-guessing himself. Everything was shades of gray in Dean's black-and-white world.

So they'd decided on the live-to-fight-another-day course of action.

Right. So. How did you stop a psychotic witch doctor bent on making sure his activities remained undisclosed? Time to regroup.

Up ahead of him, Sam glanced over his shoulder—and suddenly toppled, hitting the forest floor with an "_oof_."

Dean skidded to a halt at his side and crouched next to him. "You okay?"

Spitting dirt from his mouth, Sam nodded. "Yeah," he grunted breathlessly. "What the heck did I trip over?"

As Sam rolled onto his back, Dean scanned the area, seeing nothing but leaves and small roots. Yeah, Sam could have tripped on the roots, but… "Your own big feet?"

"Ha-ha."

Another laugh echoed through the woods on the heels of Sam's.

Dean's head snapped up at movement to his left, and he saw the witch doctor step from behind a gnarled old tree. Dean shot to his feet and stepped between his downed brother and the threat.

The witch doctor smiled, his lips curling in a way that made goose bumps rise on Dean's arms. He heard Sam climb to his feet, then the low warning:

"Dean."

This was not the time or the place for a challenge. They didn't know what they were up against. Strategic retreat was the best option for now, but Dean hated leaving the scumbag in business.

Sam tugged at his arm, and Dean suddenly realized how tense he was. He took a step back, allowing his brother to guide him. Then they were running again.

The maniacal laughter followed them, and Dean swore he heard, "_You'll be back_."

_ You bet your ass, you son of a bitch._

**oooOOOOooo**

The car doors slammed nearly in unison, encasing the brothers in the relative safety of the Impala. But Dean wasn't taking any chances; he jammed the keys into the ignition and cranked the engine to life.

It was several minutes and several miles before either of them spoke.

Sam broke the silence with a breathless, "I think we missed something."

"No, really?" Dean shot back.

Sam's head snapped in Dean's direction, and he fixed his brother with a glare. "You're not blaming me for this, are you?"

"No…" The reply was drawn out so that the unspoken _not for all of it_ hung between them.

"You are," Sam said accusingly.

"No," Dean repeated more firmly, then added, "I just think we should have plugged the guy."

"Dean, we don't know for sure that he killed anyone."

"What about all that stuff in his cabin? Huh? He didn't seem like the My Little Pony backpack kinda guy to me."

"Maybe he found the stuff."

"Well then why didn't he say so instead of coming after us?"

"He just chased us off his property."

"With a machete."

"Dean…" Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "I'm just playing devil's advocate here."

"All right, all right. Fine. Let's just get back to the motel and see if we can figure this out."

Sam didn't reply. The trip back to their room seemed a lot longer in the silence.

**oooOOOooo**

Dean stepped through the door, the peace offering of a large pepperoni and sausage pizza balanced on one hand. "Anything?"

Sam didn't even look up from the computer screen. "Not much."

"What have you got?" He set the pizza on the table.

"Well, he lives near the area where the disappearances have been reported. And we know he's got some really odd things in his cabin…"

"Understatement."

"…but there's no other physical evidence. No bodies have ever been recovered."

"What about the whole Zulu witch doctor thing? Sacrifices? Cannibalism?"

"The Zulus aren't cannibals, Dean. Most Zulu people consider themselves Christians, even though many of them retain their pre-Christian belief of ancestor worship as well. If he really is a witch doctor, he would be shunned by their society."

"So he comes here. Peachy. Still could be chowing down on the vics, though."

"There's no evidence of that, either. No altars. No bone mobiles…"

Dean shuddered, remembering their experience not so long ago with the Benders. "So basically, we're back to square one." He slid a slice of pizza onto a paper plate and set it on the table beside the computer, then grabbed his own piece.

Sitting back in his chair, Sam rubbed his temples. "Maybe we should just let the police handle this one."

Around a mouthful of food, Dean said, "Yeah, 'cause that's worked so well in the past."

Sam spread his arms in a helpless gesture. "I don't know, Dean! Okay?"

"Whoa! Down, boy. I'm just sayin'." Dean set his pizza aside and looked at his brother, really looked at him. "Hey, you okay?"

Anger draining, Sam slumped back in the chair with a sigh. "I just have a headache."

"Take a break. Eat your pizza."

"I'm not really hungry."

"You gotta eat something."

"I just… I want to figure this out." Sam turned his attention back to the screen.

Dean could play this game; he'd been doing it since Sammy was little. He raised his eyebrows and stared at his brother.

After a moment, Sam's knee began to bob, his eyes flicking across the page too quickly for him to be actually reading. Finally, he huffed and turned an agitated glare on Dean. "What?!"

"Your eyes are bloodshot."

"So? I told you. I have a headache."

Dean nodded. "How long have you had this headache?"

A shrug, then, "I noticed it when we got in the car, but it wasn't…"

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Dean waited for Sam to continue. When he didn't, Dean prompted, "Wasn't what?"

No answer.

But Dean already knew; he could see it in his brother's body language. "Wasn't this bad?" he surmised.

Sam reached up to rub the back of his neck, then nodded.

"Vision?" Dean asked cautiously.

A shake of the head this time, and when Sam leaned forward, the long bangs fell across his eyes. "Just pain without the imagery."

"Well, there's something. I'd hate to think Walla Walla Bing Bang was involved with you-know-who." Dean stood and tugged on Sam's arm. "Come on."

"What?"

"Bed."

"Dean…" That exasperated whine.

"Humor me." Dean pushed his brother down on the mattress, then went to the bathroom to retrieve a couple of Advil and a glass of water. When he returned, Sam had already kicked off his shoes and stripped down to his skivvies.

Sam gestured at the computer. "What about—?"

"It can wait."

"But you said—"

"Never mind what I said." Dean shoved the pills into one of Sam's hands and the plastic cup in the other. "Since when do you listen to me anyway?"

Sam swallowed the meds and handed the cup back to Dean. Then he curled on his side in the bed, wrapping the pillow around his head.

Dean tugged the covers over him and gave his arm a pat. He turned off the light between the beds, then headed over to the computer. It was still early yet by Dean's standards; might as well see what the kid had come up with.

"I thought you said that could wait," came the muffled comment.

"Go to sleep, Sam."

"Jerk."

Dean grinned, the battle won.

**oooOOOooo**

Morning—well, afternoon, really—came too fast. Dean groaned and rolled onto his back, staring up at the ceiling until his eyes focused. He was still in his clothes, sprawled across his bed where he'd collapsed however many hours ago. He really just wanted to go back to sleep, but now that he was awake, the case crept into his mind and demanded attention. Damn.

Man, he needed coffee. Coffee and breakfast. There was plenty of pizza left over, so that covered the "breakfast" part. Sitting up, Dean rubbed his hands over his face, then ran them up into his hair and scratched his scalp. Make coffee, shower, then breakfast. Sounded like a plan.

The fact that his normally up-with-the-sun little brother was still in bed said a lot about how bad the kid felt. That headache must have been pretty intense. Gnawing his lower lip, Dean realized that Sam hadn't moved at all since he'd gone to bed last night. And Sam was a tosser.

Dean swung his feet over the side of the bed, reached across the space between them, and shook his brother gently by the shoulder. It felt warm. "Sam?" When there was no response, he stood, shaking a little harder. "Sammy?"

Nothing.

Breath quickening, Dean turned on the bedside lamp and carefully rolled Sam onto his back…and swore.

Sam was burning up. His face was flushed, his breathing so low, Dean had to hold a hand under his nose to make sure it was there at all. While the fingers of his right hand sought the pulse point in his brother's neck, Dean gently lifted one of Sam's eyelids with his left. The breath left him in a rush. The white of Sam's eye was red. Completely. A quick check revealed that the other eye was the same.

"Damn it, Sam. What the hell?" Panic was flooding him. Running a hand over his face, Dean took a breath, closed his eyes, and tried to focus. First things first. He hurried to the bathroom and turned on the cold water faucet in the tub, letting it run a bit before he plugged the drain. He grabbed all the towels and tossed them in, soaking them in the water. Once they were cold, he wrung them out one at a time and hurried back to his brother. Dean didn't give a damn if the mattress got wet; he tossed back the covers and wrapped a towel around each of Sam's ankles, the hand towels around his wrists, and the facecloths at the back of Sam's neck and on his forehead.

A small groan of protest, barely audible, was the only response.

Sinking down on the edge of his bed, Dean sighed. What worried him the most was that Sam had shown no signs of being sick or coming down with anything all week. Add to that the fact that they were dealing with a witch doctor, and that the symptoms had begun shortly after their encounter, and Dean was coming up with a recipe for disaster. He had never in his life seen eyes so blood red. It was just creepy. That they were his brother's eyes… Dean's gut twisted.

A shiver from Sam had Dean moving again, checking on the compresses. They were warm already. He soaked them again in cold water and replaced them.

The routine was repeated multiple times over the next several hours. In between his trips to the tub, Dean made some calls, hoping someone, somewhere, would have an idea of what he was dealing with. He left a message for Bobby, and Jefferson didn't know, but said he would make some more calls.

All of which left Dean clueless. He kicked the leg of his bed in frustration. "Damn it!"

A deep laugh sent a chill tripping down his spine. Dean spun, eyes fixing on Sam. The kid was still out. What the hell? He scanned the room, but there was no one else there.

_ You'll be back_.

Dean shook his head, uncertain whether he was remembering the words the witch doctor had spoken, or hearing them anew. It didn't matter, though. He was certain the bastard was responsible for Sam's condition. A curse, maybe?

Only one way to find out. Dean pulled one of the chairs from the table to the space between the beds, then grabbed the laptop and brought it over, too.

He would figure this out.

**oooOOOooo**

"No."

The word was spoken so softly, Dean wasn't sure he'd heard anything. He looked away from the computer too quickly and the room spun. "Sammy?"

His brother didn't move. It was probably time to change the towels again anyway. If he didn't find something soon, Dean was going to have to risk it and take Sam to the hospital. But how did you explain that your brother had been cursed by a witch doctor? After researching for hours, that was still the only explanation Dean could come up with. He set the laptop aside and began to gently remove the towels.

Sam's fingers twitched. It was the first movement he'd seen all day. But…

"Sam?" Dean laid a hand on his brother's forehead. Still hot, but Sam's hair was damp. If the fever had finally broken, that was a good sign, but the erratic rise and fall of his chest was worrisome. Feverish dreams were—

Sam sat bolt upright, so abruptly that Dean fell back, hitting the floor solidly on his backside. "Geez, Sam, how about giving a guy a little warning before you—?" Dean cut himself off, certain when he looked at his brother that he wasn't being heard.

Sam was staring across the room, blood-red eyes wide with terror, at something only he could see. In their line of work, that didn't always mean imaginary.

"Sam?"

Sam shook his head, the short jerky movement resembling a shiver. But Dean knew better. He knew that look; he'd seen it before. Moving slowly, Dean shifted onto his knees and closed the distance between them.

Shaking his head, Sam backed away until he was pressed against the headboard. When he could go no farther, his breath quickened, panic engulfing him. "No," he whispered. Then louder: "Stay away from me. Get away!"

Dean knew the words weren't meant for him, but still he paused, wary of distressing his brother further. "Sammy, I'm here. Look at me. _Look at me, Sam_."

But Dean's words had no effect. His brother continued to press himself against the headboard, desperate to escape whatever was haunting him.

Then Sam screamed.

"Son of a—" Dean rushed forward and grabbed Sam's arms, shouting over the cries to try to get through. A fist connected with his jaw, and Dean saw stars. He managed to keep hold of his struggling brother, but it was getting harder. The strength in those weakened limbs was astounding, and Sam was showing no signs of calming down. So Dean did the only thing he could think of: he pulled Sam to his chest, wrapped his arms around him, and held him, tight.

"It's okay, Sammy. I've got you," Dean assured him. You're safe. I've got you."

And that became his mantra for…he didn't even know how long. But Dean was certain he had bruises upon bruises by the time Sam stopped fighting and collapsed against him, finally falling asleep—or passing out.

Dean gave a shaky sigh, some of the tension easing. He remained there for a long time, just holding his brother, looking after him. Lately, it seemed to be getting harder and harder. Case in point: how could he protect his brother from an invisible enemy?

Dean sighed. He found it hard to relax his muscles enough to loosen his grip on Sam. His arms ached, but he'd managed to keep his brother from hurting himself. But how much longer could this go on? He couldn't research when Sam needed him, but if he didn't do the research…

But Sam was showing no signs of improvement, and Dean was running out of options. He carefully laid his brother down on the bed, then stood and turned back to the laptop.

The computer displayed only the screensaver. Staring at it, Dean couldn't help but think if it were him on that bed, Sam would have found the answer by now. The kid had become quite the researcher. The years at school probably helped, but Dean suspected it was mostly due to the fact that that was all Sammy had been allowed to do when he was younger: research. Dean was no slacker himself when it came to hitting the keyboard, he just preferred the action. But Sam? Dean had to admit to a certain amount of pride when his brother got his geek on. A small smile quirked his lips while worried eyes glanced Sam's way.

Damn it! He could do this. Dean headed back to the computer and brought the screen back with a touch. He'd read so much on so-called Zulu witch doctors who weren't really witch doctors, ancient curses, traditions, enemies—he felt like he could write a book. A book about everything but how to cure Sam. How to break the curse. Maybe…

Maybe if he looked at it from a different angle. He'd been so busy looking for the cause, he'd ignored the effect. Okay, so…

He brought the search engine up in a new tab and typed in _Zulu witch doctor_, then added _fever_ and _bloodshot eyes._

And there. The very first entry. "I'll be damned…" The words he had typed were in bold, but it was the full passage that made Dean's stomach drop:

"Parker claimed that the _**Zulu**_ tribes would sacrifice sheep and goats to the evil tree. **...** severe headache, _**blood-shot eyes**_, and delirium, ending in death..."

Dean looked at the link: Evil Tree Species- The Umdhlebi of Zululand, then clicked on it. As he read, he became more and more certain he'd been wrong. Sam wasn't cursed; he'd been poisoned, by a friggin' tree Dean had never heard of. All the symptoms matched, but it was the last part that terrified Dean. There was no way, _no way_, he was letting Sam die. Dad was gone; he wasn't about to lose Sammy, too.

He couldn't help but send a glance Sam's way before continuing to read. There wasn't much, but what was there was enough to make Dean's hands curl into fists. There was a cure, made from the fruit of the tree itself. And there were apparently very few people who knew how to make it. Dean could guess at least one.

_ You'll be back._

He knew. The son of a bitch knew.

Dean felt the muscles in his jaw twitch, and he realized how tightly he was clenching his teeth. According to the legend, the Zulus had sacrificed sheep and goats to the tree. That explained the disappearances; the good doctor had kicked it up a notch. So maybe he wasn't directly responsible for the deaths of those missing, but the Umdhlebi was not exactly native to the area. Someone had to have brought it here. Three guesses who.

Okay, fine. So he had to go back there. The dilemma was, did he take Sam with him? If he did, Sam would be at risk. But leaving Sam alone while he was delusional was not an option either, and Bobby still hadn't returned his call. No, he had to keep Sammy with him. If anything happened while Dean was gone, he'd never forgive himself.

That settled, Dean made a mental list of supplies. Everything they needed was in the trunk. He had no idea how you were supposed to take out an evil African tree, but he knew what would work: a good old-fashioned bonfire always seemed to do the trick. And an ax for backup. And if the doc tried to stop him? Dean's piece was clean and fully loaded; he'd use it if he had to.

The hardest part would be getting Sam there. He wasn't exactly the scrawny kid he used to be. Since returning to the world of hunting, he'd gotten back into a regimen of exercise that was building muscle mass. They'd only just started sparring again since Sam had had his cast removed, and already Dean could feel the difference in his brother's strength. Sam gave him a run for his money; one of these days, the kid might even best him. Dean huffed out a small laugh. Nah, never gonna happen.

But he'd be damned if he wasn't about to make sure Sam had the opportunity to try.

Mind made up, Dean set about gathering the clothes Sam had shed. Most were still on the end of the mattress, some on the floor. Once that was done, he sat on the edge of Sam's bed and gently shook his brother. "Sam? I need you to wake up, dude. Time to end this thing."

A low groan was his only response. Then, as Dean watched, his brother's eyes slowly slitted open, gaze fixed on the ceiling.

"Sammy?"

Sam's eyes opened a little more, that horrible red still coloring them, and his brow furrowed in confusion as if he couldn't remember where he was or what had happened.

Dean smiled, hoping to offer some positive vibes, but the smiled faded when Sam's forehead smoothed out and his eyes blinked a few times before sliding closed again. "No, no, no. Hey, hey." Dean tapped Sam's face lightly. "C'mon, man."

Sam gave a small noise of protest, turning his head away.

Dean eased it back to face him. "Uh-uh. We got work to do. And I need your help, Sammy. You hear me? I need you." He could see the struggle it was for his brother to obey. Somehow, Sam managed, those awful red eyes shifting to look at Dean. "Attaboy," Dean said proudly. Sometimes that stubborn streak wasn't such a bad thing.

Sam opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, but Dean shushed him.

"You were poisoned, Sammy."

The sweaty brow furrowed again, Sam's fever-fried, geekazoid brain trying to put two and two together and coming up with zero. "P-poison," he rasped. "Wha—?"

"The witch doctor, remember?" Slowly, gently, Dean eased Sam upright, pushing back the covers and sliding the long legs over the edge of the mattress. "Somehow you were poisoned by his freaky pet tree. You believe it? Leave it to you to find the only Oompa-loompa tree in the country." He got his brother dressed, keeping up the litany. He wasn't sure Sam understood what he was saying, but the red eyes were following his movements. At the very least, he was giving the kid something to focus on. "You have the knack, I'll give you that, bro."

He bent to tug on Sam's jeans, pulling them up as far as he could before Sam needed to stand, then got sneakers on his feet. He straightened just in time to catch Sam's head on his shoulder as his brother pitched forward, no longer able to stay upright.

"Whoa! Yell 'timber,' dude." He clamped a hand on the back of Sam's neck, holding him there a moment and heaving a sigh. Then, with a quick squeeze and a pat, he carefully nudged Sam upright again before his emotions got the better of him. "All right, Sasquatch. On your feet." He took his brother by the shoulders and lifted, grunting out a "geez" when he realized Sam wasn't helping all that much.

But somehow, Sam managed to remain on his feet, locking his knees and using the bed for extra support. Fumbling fingers got the jeans fastened, even if it did take a lot longer. Dean let him, keeping one hand on his arm and one flattened on his chest to keep him steady. He could feel Sam trembling, his muscles spasming. This was so not good.

"All right, Sam. Time to go. Okay?"

Sam managed a jerky nod.

Pulling Sam's arm across his shoulders, Dean drew a deep breath. His own arm slipped around Sam's waist, fingers locking around his waistband. "One step at a time, bro."

The first step wasn't so bad. But the second… Sam's sneaker dragged across the carpet, snagging behind the other one and tripping Sam up. He would have face-planted if Dean hadn't had a firm grip on him. Sam grabbed a fistful of Dean's shirt and held on for dear life, his knees buckling, a cry of frustration escaping his lips.

"Easy, easy," Dean soothed. "It's okay. You can do this, Sammy. I got you." He gave Sam another moment to regroup, then lifted once more.

Sam still held on to him, but his feet moved. Awkward zigzaggy moved, but hey, it was something.

It took them several minutes to make it to the door, even longer to reach the car. Dean didn't even want to think about how long it would take to get back to that tree or the witch doctor's cabin. He'd deal with that when the time came. First, he needed to get Sam settled into the car. Propping his brother against the warm steel, he reached for the back door handle.

"No."

It was spoken so softly, Dean wasn't sure he'd heard. "Sam?"

"Wanna sit…up front…"

Dean paused only half a second. "Okay. Just thought you'd want to sleep in the back."

With what strength he could muster, Sam pushed himself upright, planted a hand firmly on the roof of the Chevy, and reached for the front door handle. "Can sleep…in front." He stubbornly fumbled with it, not enough strength in one hand to depress the push button. With a sigh of frustration, he used both hands and finally managed to pull the door open. The momentum nearly toppled him, but Dean was there with a steadying hand.

"Sammy…" Dean shook his head as his brother practically collapsed onto the bench seat. He waited until Sam was inside, then closed the door and circled the car to the driver's side. By the time he got in, Sam was curled on his side, eyes closed, completely spent.

It was about an hour's drive to get where they needed to go. Dean hoped his brother recovered some strength before then, otherwise the trip to the cabin was going to take a lot out of them both. And Dean was going to need to be in top form to deal with the doc and his little shop of horrors.

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks so much for the comments! It's good to be back. Here is the conclusion of Out of Africa. I hope you enjoy!

**Out of Africa**

**By AJ Wesley**

**Chapter 2**

His insides were on fire. Everything hurt and there was no end to the pain. He longed for the blissful unawareness of sleep, but…that was where _it_ resided. It was there every time he closed his eyes, a dark specter beckoning him to come. He could hear its whispers, its taunts, its laughter.

_ What do you want?!_

But there was never an answer, only more laughter.

_Leave me alone. Stay away from me!_

It whispered again, but he couldn't understand the words, couldn't understand anything. Why was this happening?

Something…something about…poison?

Dean. Dean had told him that. Dean was there. Wasn't he? He had to be.

_ Please, God, don't let me be alone. I don't want to die alone._

He cried out, startled, as something grabbed him. He fought with everything he had, but still couldn't break the hold. His muscles felt like rubber bands that had been stretched too far for too long. He couldn't escape.

"_No!_"

"Hey!"

Sam's eyes shot open, but everything was still in shadow, as if he were looking through a dense gray fog. But the figure before him…not the demon of his dreams…familiar somehow …familiar…family…

He stopped struggling and clutched the arms holding his. Leather. "D-Dean?" He blinked in an effort to clear his vision. It was still light out, the sun blocked by Dean's body as he leaned over Sam. A cool breeze blew through the open door, making him shiver. That was when he suddenly realized the car wasn't moving.

"I'm right here, Sam. It's okay." Dean clapped him on the upper arms. "We're here, dude. You ready?"

He really wasn't. Every move intensified the pain. He just wanted to crawl into a hole and—

_Be careful what you wish for…_

Sam jerked, his eyes popping open. He didn't even remember closing them, letting the nightmare in. Instinct drove him to move, to get away, but his feet got caught on something, toppling him. His knees slammed into a hard surface and he fell forward. It was going to hurt, but he really didn't care. He thought he heard a familiar voice, so close, but the sound of distant laughter drowned it out…

**oooOOOooo**

"Geez!" Dean shifted his grip quickly, grabbing Sam under the arms as he pitched out of the car. He winced as his brother's knees slammed into the hard-packed dirt, but Dean managed to keep him from falling any farther. "Sammy…" This was not going to be easy. "Come on, man."

Sam's feet were still caught on the rocker panel, so Dean lifted him as best he could and stepped back, pulling his brother completely from the car. Winded, he sank to one knee, turning Sam so his back was resting against his raised leg. The dark head lolled forward, then rolled up as if Sam was fighting to stay conscious.

"That's it, Sam," Dean encouraged him. Fighting was good. "Up and at 'em."

Sam blinked a few times, squinting in the sunlight, head still wobbly. His hand lifted, uncooperative fingers trying to find purchase, and finally managed to catch the sleeve of Dean's jacket. Then he started to move, holding his breath as he struggled to gain his feet.

Dean stood, pulling his brother up with him, and got him anchored. "Okay, Sammy. Here we go. Stay with me, okay?"

Sam's head moved in what might have been a nod.

They started out slowly, eventually finding a rhythm that seemed to work. Dean kept his eyes straight ahead, focusing on the goal and trying to ignore his screaming muscles. He wasn't sure how he remembered which way to go; he'd always had an innate sense of direction. It had always helped him in the past. He was counting on it now.

A cool breeze rustled the leaves. It felt good on his sweaty face, but also set his nerves on edge. They were in the danger zone. Years of training and experience had taught Dean to discern natural sounds from the unnatural, but this place… Everything about it felt unnatural. Like the demon tree had driven away every animal and bird in the area. Dean slowed his pace. He needed to be ready. No surprises this time. Scanning the forest, he found a large tree that looked safe and sturdy. He shifted direction and moved toward it, easing Sam into the new direction. When they finally reached the old tree, he carefully propped Sam against it, his left hand splayed at the center of Sam's chest to provide support. With his right, Dean drew his Colt and released the safety.

Laughter filled the air around him. He felt Sam's breath quicken, his chest heaving beneath Dean's hand; Sam heard it, too.

"Dean," Sam breathed, real fear in his voice.

Weapon extended, Dean turned. But there was nothing there.

"_I told you you'd be back_."

The voice seemed to be everywhere, inside his head and all around. "Where are you, you son of a—?"

Something stung his neck. Cursing, Dean reached up to swat the insect and felt the tiny object protruding from his skin. He pulled it out quickly, but even as he looked at the tiny sliver of wood between his fingers, his vision started to blur. He turned to Sam, saw the look of horror in his brother's eyes as Dean dropped to his knees, the weapon falling from his grasp. Then he was grabbed by the throat and hauled to his feet. Dean lifted his hands, clawing at the one encircling his neck. He couldn't breathe…

"I know why you are here."

His vision was graying, but somehow Dean managed to focus on the witch doctor.

"You cannot save him."

_ If you can't save him…_

"It is too late."

_…you have to kill him._

"No," Dean managed to choke out.

The man smiled, releasing him.

Dean collapsed, his body refusing to obey. All he could do was watch as the witch doctor crossed to Sam. The last thing he saw was the man taking a handful of Sam's hair and dragging him upright. Then everything went black.

**oooOOOooo**

Whispers. Words. He heard them, but he didn't understand. Quiet, soft-spoken words, from somewhere nearby. Not in his head this time. But the pain was still there, everywhere. He just wanted to roll over and go back to sleep. But…

Sam dragged his eyes open, his muddled brain knowing something was wrong but having a hard time figuring out what that something was. Blinking to try to focus, he searched for the source of the sound.

When he found it, his breath caught: the shadow from his nightmares was standing just a few feet away. He needed to move, to escape, but he couldn't. Something was…was…

Sam tried to draw his arms forward, but they seemed to be secured. He didn't have the strength to fight it. It was hard to… He lifted his head, the muscles in his neck screaming their protest, but he couldn't hold it upright. It dropped back, connecting with something solid behind him.

He suddenly realized it had become quiet. Sam shifted his gaze back to the shadowy figure just in time to see it move toward him. Fear spiked his pulse and his chest heaved for breath. His mouth was dry and he couldn't swallow. His tongue felt thick. What—?

A hand touched his face, and the words were back. He tried to jerk away from the contact, but he couldn't escape it. When he finally managed to focus, Sam saw that the witch doctor's other hand was raised, his eyes gazing upward like he was…praying. Sam didn't think God was on the receiving end of that prayer. This was so not good.

What was going on? Wasn't he just—?

Wait. Where was…? "Dean?" It came out choked and weak, but it caught his captor's attention.

The witch doctor smiled. A horrible knowing smile that churned Sam's stomach, making him feel an entirely different kind of sick. His brother had to be okay. He _had_ to be. And Sam had to—

Dragging his gaze away from that awful smirk, Sam scanned the forest surrounding them, but there was no sign of his brother. "Dean!" he yelled, but it was barely audible. He struggled against his bonds with what strength he had left, but it was no use; he was running on empty.

Sam sagged, his head dropping back once more. He looked up, his vision swimming in and out of focus. Long, wispy branches, like those of a willow tree, hung above his head. But it was no weeping willow. He recognized it from…before…how long ago was it anyway? Didn't matter. _Focus, Sam!_ The old, gnarled tree. Its branches swayed gently in the…wait. There was no wind. The branches were moving…in different directions. And he was tied to the damned thing.

The witch doctor's chanting grew louder, more intense. The sound was overwhelming, and Sam wanted to scream.

Then he felt something on his shoulder, something on his leg. Holding his breath, Sam dared to look. The vine-like branches were reaching out for him, twining around his leg, slithering over his shoulder and down his chest. Like dozens of thin snakes, slithering, invading, encircling, binding…

And then Sam did scream.

**oooOOOooo**

"Smoke on the Water" was playing again. He remembered loving that song, but normally he would only play the same song over and over again to annoy Sammy. Now he was the one getting annoyed. This had to be payback: Sam's retribution for yet another of Dean's pranks. A grin curled his lips. Got him good.

The music stopped, and Dean settled back to sleep. Only… Somewhere at the edge of consciousness, something lingered, gnawing, teasing. Poking at him like it expected him to remember something. Something important. Something—

"Smoke on the Water." Again.

"Damn it, Sam," he grumbled. Or at least he thought he did; what reached his ears was garbled nonsense. _Musta had one too many last night._ He reached out for the phone on the nightstand, but his hand touched… What the…? Dean opened his eyes.

Everything was blurry. But even through the haze, he could tell something was not right. Very slowly, sensation began to return, and Dean could feel it was not a mattress under him. He'd stayed in some dives in his life, but even the lumpiest of mattresses never felt like this. Like…what the heck was poking him in the stomach, anyway? With some effort, Dean managed to make a fist. His fingers gouged into something that crackled, then into cool, moist…dirt. The smells…

"Sam?" He pushed up on wobbly arms, but they couldn't hold his weight. He collapsed back to the ground, panting. "Son of a—" Why couldn't he…?

His memory slammed back with the force of a blow, and Dean grabbed his head, a groan escaping through his clenched teeth.

And the damn song started playing again. Wanting to scream, Dean pressed the heels of his hands into temples. He had to get up, had to get to Sam. Had to—

Noises sounded from nearby. The crunching of leaves. Footfalls. Someone walking…no, running… He had to…had to…

"Dean!"

Someone…not Sam. He tried to get up again, but his body wouldn't obey his commands.

Then there were hands on him, skimming his body, moving his hands, rolling him over and holding him in a strong, supportive grip. Dean blinked up at the shadowy blur, squinting to clear his vision.

"Dean? You all right, boy?

He knew that voice. Bobby?

"Yeah, genius, it's me. Who'd you think?"

"How…how'd'you…find…?" Damn, it was hard to think!

"You sent me coordinates, remember?"

"I-I…did? I…did…" Yeah, he kinda remembered that…

Then the light was blocked from view and a different set of hands gingerly touched his neck. Warm hands, gentle hands. He blinked, eyes catching the dark curls, the smooth, perfect skin. "Cassie?"

"Just relax, Dean. You'll be fine," said a voice that wasn't Cassie's. A woman…with an accent like…like…

"Sam!" Dean sat bolt upright in Bobby's grip and instantly regretted it. His stomach lurched, and then he was retching. He could feel Bobby holding him up, patting his back, but he was too miserable to shake the man off or feel embarrassed. His head felt like it was going to pop, but all he could think was that he was wasting time. Sammy was in trouble.

There was a conversation going on. He could hear their voices—Bobby's and the woman's—but he couldn't catch the words through the ringing in his ears. He sat panting in Bobby's grip, wanting to move but his body not cooperating.

"Dean." The woman's voice again. "Put this under your tongue."

The warm hands cupped his face and coaxed his mouth open. A small wad of something slid under his tongue. He didn't really taste anything—not with the horrible sour taste already in his mouth—but after a few minutes, his head began to clear.

"What the hell is that?" he asked without moving his tongue. His vision was clear enough now to see her smile.

"Just something to counteract the poison. Just stay still for a little."

"No. Sammy's—" He tried to get up, but fell right on his backside again.

Bobby steadied him. "It doesn't work that fast, Dean. Just hold your horses."

"Bobby," Dean pleaded, not worrying now about the stuff under his tongue as he spoke, "that freak has Sam. We gotta find him before…"

"Dean—"

"The boy is right, Robert. If it is truly Umdhlebi, we must move quickly and be cautious."

Bobby let out a sigh, but it was clear he was not going to argue with her. He pulled one of Dean's arms across his shoulders and lifted.

Dean's stomach dropped like he'd traveled up way to fast in an elevator, but he managed to get it settled with a couple of swallows and deep breaths.

"You all right?" Bobby asked.

"Yeah." He glanced after the woman, who was already on her way. "Who's she?"

"Name's Noli. She's a _sangoma_."

"A what?"

"She can help," was the explanation, said with a bit of irritation.

"Okay," Dean conceded, then grinned. "Robert."

"Shuddup."

**oooOOOooo**

The terrain was starting to look really familiar, especially now that whatever Noli had given him had cleared his head. Still supported by Bobby, Dean found himself silently urging the older man to pick up the pace. He had to find Sam. He had to—

Dean stopped in his tracks.

"What is it?" Bobby asked, halting with him.

"Shhh," Dean urged.

Ahead of them, Noli stopped moving, too, and the forest around them grew silent…except for…chanting. Someone was chanting. Dean couldn't make out the words, but he knew the tone, had heard enough spells to know the cadence of one. But there was something else, too. Something he doubted anyone else heard, but he was so attuned to it that it rocked him to the core.

"Sam," he said on a breath. Dean broke free of Bobby's grip and bolted toward the sound. He didn't even have a weapon, but he didn't care; footfalls behind him told him Bobby and Noli were in pursuit.

The burst of adrenaline allowed Dean to push himself to the limit. He couldn't hear anything now over the rush of blood pounding in his ears, but the noise he had heard his brother make resonated in his head; Sam was in pain. And God help whatever was causing it.

As he got closer, he slowed to a stop, breathing hard, listening past the noise in his head. The chanting was getting louder, almost as if reaching a crescendo. Dean didn't like the thought of that. He closed his eyes, focused on the sound, then took off in that direction.

Moments later, he burst in on the scene and skidded to a halt, his eyes landing first on the witch doctor. The ugly smile on the man's face twisted Dean's gut into knots. Eyes searching, Dean finally located his brother—and stopped breathing.

Sam was… Sam was almost completely enveloped in the snake-like boughs of the tree, struggling weakly in its grip.

Lightheaded, Dean sucked in a breath and moved closer, keeping just out of reach of whipping limbs that seemed to know he was a threat.

The tree wasn't simply wrapping itself around Sam; it was squeezing the life out of him. Tiny rivulets of blood trickled from beneath the coils, and as Dean drew closer, he could just about hear his brother's desperate gasps for air. Sam didn't have much time.

"Screw this," Dean muttered, then darted toward his brother. Branches cracked at him like dozens of whips, welting, slicing skin. Dean gritted his teeth and forged ahead, using the pain to fuel his anger. Almost—

Dean crashed face-first to the ground, practically at Sam's feet. He turned his head in time to see the root sink back into the ground, its job accomplished. "Son of a…." Just as he pushed up to his hands and knees, Dean felt one of the branches wrap around his ankle. It dragged him away from Sam, the tree hungrily protecting its catch.

Struggling upright, Dean reached for his boot and the knife hidden there. If he could just—

A branch curled around his neck and hoisted him up. Dean choked, hands going to his throat. It lifted him off the ground, but kept hold of his leg, pulling, increasing the pressure on his neck. He gasped for breath, unable to slip his fingers between the garrote and his neck. As his vision dimmed, he turned his gaze to his brother. _I'm sorry, Sammy._

And then he was falling. A strange sensation of being weightless…until he crashed into the unforgiving ground. Wait, what?

The jarring slammed him back to reality—and the pain that came with it—with blinding speed. Dean retched and gasped for breath, trying to get air to his starving lungs through an abused windpipe. Through tearing eyes, he caught sight of the tiny wisp of smoke curling from the barrel of Bobby's pistol before another round of coughing claimed him.

The older man was at his side a moment later; the hand on Dean's back confirmed it.

"Sam," Dean managed to choke out. His brother had fallen silent, still. Dean scrambled to his feet, but was held back.

"Give her a minute," Bobby said in a hushed voice.

Dean's ears were still ringing. The shrill noise was almost deafening. When he finally managed to focus, he looked up at Bobby, then followed the man's gaze to where Noli was standing just a few feet away, chanting.

It was then that Dean realized the shrill noise he was hearing was not in his head. It was the tree. It had released him completely and was now trembling, shaking insanely and practically screaming. The thing was _pissed_. Or in pain. Maybe both. Who knew with a friggin' tree?

"What are you doing, woman?" the witch doctor shrieked. "Stop. Stop, you fool!"

He started toward her, but Bobby stood, leveling the weapon on him. "I wouldn't do that if I was you." Then, without looking down, he said, "Dean, now."

The statement needed no explanation. Dean scrambled to his feet and ran to his brother…and swore. The branches had almost completely engulfed Sam, and where his arms were stretched behind the tree, the bark had begun to grow over his skin. The thing was eating Sam alive. If he was still alive—

Dean stopped that line of thought. No time for that now. He grabbed the knife from his boot and starting slicing, severing the branches from above first before attacking the ones binding Sam to the ancient trunk. He cut the rope next, but his brother's arms remained where they had been stretched, the bark holding them in place. Muttering another curse, Dean began hacking at the tree, desperately trying to free his brother.

"Hang on, Sam," he said on a breath. He glanced up at this brother, concerned that the kid hadn't moved at all.

Something wet slid over his hand. Dean looked down and was horrified to see blood covering the blade and his skin. In his haste, he'd somehow managed to cut his brother. "Sammy, I'm sorry." Uncertain what to do, Dean paused. His hand was shaking. Clenching his fingers, he willed himself to pull it together and get Sam the hell out of there. But there was so much blood.

Too much blood. What the hell? Dean crouched down to get a better angle. That was when he realized he hadn't cut Sam. The _tree_ was bleeding.

A sudden sense of satisfaction welled in Dean. With renewed determination, he hacked and sliced at the thing until finally Sam slipped from the Umdhlebi's grasp.

Dean caught him as he fell, his body still encased in layer upon layer of branches.

A deafening screech rent the air. Dean ducked his head, unable to cover his ears as he dragged Sam out of the thing's reach. The witch doctor was ranting, too, but Dean couldn't understand what he was saying over the piercing sounds of the tree. Not that he cared. At that moment, his focus was on Sam, getting him to safety and freeing him from the cocoon of branches. When he was finally a safe distance away, Dean collapsed to his knees, easing his brother to the ground.

Bobby's voice had Dean's head snapping up.

"I said, don't move." The warning was clear, punctuated by the cocking of the hammer.

The witch doctor was furious now, gesturing wildly at the tree and at Sam. He lunged toward Noli, but before Bobby could pull the trigger, the witch doctor fell…right into the writhing tendrils of the Umdhlebi. He was lifted into the air, fighting and screaming as the tree enveloped him in branches and bark, devouring him.

Dean looked away, turning his attention back to Sam. His brother looked horrible: pale and still. Dean couldn't even tell if he was breathing. Gripping his blade tighter, Dean grabbed a handful of the cord-like limbs and sliced through them. At some point, Bobby joined him, pulling away the severed pieces as Dean continued to cut.

Finally, he was able to see Sam's shirt. But as he sliced it up toward the neckline, Dean saw that the damn tendrils had slipped under Sam's t-shirt. He tugged to get them out, but they wouldn't budge. Frustrated, Dean slit the t-shirt up the middle. "Sorry, Sam," he said quietly.

Pulling the split material apart, Dean was able to see the extent of the tree's vicious attack. He swore. Like vines growing up the trunk of a tree, the branches had sprouted tiny roots that had embedded themselves into Sam's skin. Their dark, reddish-brown color told Dean it wasn't simply rooting itself to Sam. The damn things were all over the place: down his chest, across his stomach, some disappearing under the waistband of his jeans. Smaller fronds had started up Sam's neck toward his face, and more were wrapped around his ankles, no doubt creeping up the kid's legs.

Dean looked down at his hands, still covered with drying, caking blood. That's why the tree was bleeding. It was Sam's blood…and the blood of its other victims. Friggin' vampire tree…

"Is he all ri—? Mother of—"

Bobby's voice broke Dean from his thoughts. He looked up at the older man. "Do I just cut these things off? They're everywhere!" Anger lent power to his voice.

"Don't touch them," Noli warned. She stepped around Bobby for a closer look.

"Well, what the hell am I supposed to do?!" Panic was creeping into his voice, but Dean didn't care. Sam was too still. Too pale. His breathing way too slow. Dean's stomach flipped. Between the drugs and the nausea, it was taking great effort not to throw up.

"We need the antidote," Noli said. "Your brother does not have much time."

Dean looked up at her sharply. "Do you know how to make it? It's made from the fallen seed pods, right? If we can—"

"I don't know." The _sangoma's_ voice was grim. "I'm sorry."

Dean moved to run a hand over his face—force of habit—but thought better of the idea. Instead, he pounded a fist against his leg. "So what then, huh? You mean to tell me the only person who could have made the cure is now fertilizer?!"

"There has to be something, Noli," Bobby urged her.

The woman shook her head. "He would have kept some made…a supply for himself, just in case. In the bag he was wearing."

"Or in the cabin." Dean's gaze darted between the _sangoma_ and Bobby, settling on the latter. "He has a cabin close by."

"It's our best shot," Bobby agreed. "Take Noli with you. I'll stay with the kid—"

"No. No way." Dean shook his head adamantly. "I'm not leaving Sam."

"Dean, you know—"

"No, Bobby." Dean didn't even try to hide the emotion in his voice. "I have to stay. What if he—?" He couldn't say it. Didn't even want to think about the possibility. He stared up at Bobby, knowing his eyes were glazing over but not giving a damn. He just hoped his friend understood.

Bobby nodded once. "Which way?"

"Just follow the path. West. You'll see it."

The older hunter clapped a hand on Dean's shoulder and used him for leverage to stand. "Bad knees," he grumbled, but gave Dean's shoulder a squeeze before letting go. He took off into the woods with Noli close behind.

Alone with Sam, Dean became more aware of the silence surrounding them. A foreboding silence. He glanced around, his gaze coming to rest on the Umdhlebi.

"You and me," he said, his voice a low growl, "we have a date with some s'mores."

The tree's leaves shook as if it knew it was being spoken to, and Dean had the sudden urge to get his brother as far away from the thing as he possibly could. They couldn't leave the area, not with Bobby and Noli expected to return with the antidote for Sam. But Dean felt the need to be a healthy distance away from the thing, from the damn roots that had started it all.

"Come on, Sam." Dean slid an arm under his brother's shoulders and the other under his knees. Taking a breath, he hefted his precious cargo into his arms. His legs shook a little under the weight, but he managed to steady himself and stagger several more yards from the danger zone.

Sam didn't react at all. His only movement was when his head lolled and came to rest against Dean's chest and shoulder.

Anxiety ratcheting up a notch, Dean collapsed onto one knee and gently lowered his brother to the ground, settling him as comfortably as possible. Sam's skin was cold. Dean quickly shucked off his jacket and laid it over Sam, tucking it under on each side. His fingers paused over the pulse point at Sam's neck. The sluggish beat made his own heart skip. Where the hell was Bobby? What if he didn't make it back in time? What if there wasn't anything to find? What if—?

Dean clenched his hands into fists, feeling the dried blood crack and flake. "Hang on, Sammy," he demanded. "You hear me?"

A cool breeze rustled the leaves, the sound almost deafening. It wasn't a sound Dean wanted to hear.

He shivered. "I hate friggin' trees. I hate friggin' woods." He looked down at his too-still brother. "Hey, remember when we went on that camping trip with Dad? Well, _you_ thought it was a camping trip, anyway. You were, what, eight years old? You were so excited." Dean sat beside Sam so the kid's head lay against his thigh. He brushed the dark hair back and let his hand rest lightly on the other side of Sam's face. "Then Dad went off, and it started to rain. It rained and rained. There was water everywhere. Ground got so wet, it wouldn't even hold the tent pegs. Everything was washing away, remember?" Dean shook his head at the memory. "We had to cut the tent just to get out. I don't even remember how we found our way back to the car, couldn't see through that downpour. I just know we made it, and we sat there in the back seat, soaking wet and covered with mud—dude, it was even in my shorts—and we…we looked at each other, and at the exact same time we both said 'I hate camping.'" Dean laughed at the memory, absently stroking Sam's face and hair. "Then we laughed and couldn't stop laughing…"

No more words would come. Dean sniffed and cleared his throat. "You'll be all right, Sammy. Everything'll be fine."

Another noise, a rustling in the brush, brought Dean back into full alert mode. He waited, tense, at the sound of footfalls.

"Dean?"

Bobby. Thank God. "Over here!"

In a moment, Bobby was at his side. He didn't even ask why Dean had moved. He didn't need to. Noli stepped up beside him and handed Dean an amber bottle with a black leather stopper.

"This is it?"

"I believe so," Noli said.

Dean looked at her like she was crazy. "You _believe_ so? Lady, I'm not experimenting on—"

"Dean, it's all we've got," Bobby told him.

Dean looked at him, aghast. Bobby was dead serious. But they were right; what else could they do? He sighed. "Yeah. Okay."

Bobby shifted awkwardly. "Look, uh…Noli's gonna say some prayers by that monster tree. Should keep it dormant until we can come back and torch the sucker. I'll be over there if you need me."

Dean nodded. When he was once again alone with Sam, he set the bottle aside and lifted Sam under the shoulders, pulling his brother into his lap. He settled Sam's head into his left shoulder, then reached for the bottle. Drawing his arms together around his brother, he removed the cork.

The smell hit him instantly, making him gag. How could anything so foul smelling be a good thing? With a slight pause, and a silent apology, Dean gently tilted Sam's head back. He opened Sam's mouth and poured a small amount of the dark liquid into it. With his other hand, he massaged Sam's throat, making sure it all went down. After a moment, he poured some more.

Dean repeated the process until the bottle was empty. Swiping a thumb across Sam's jaw to catch the trickle that had escaped, Dean tossed the bottle away, then closed his arms around his brother. Nothing to do now but wait.

And that was the hardest part. After everything, he still didn't know if Sam would come out of this alive. The kid remained still, a dead weight in his arms.

God, Dean hated this: the waiting, the helplessness. The feeling that he was utterly useless. Impotent, Sam would have said. Never in a million years would he ever associate that word with himself…until now. Damn it.

So he did the only thing he could: he sat and held Sam.

He didn't know exactly how long he sat there, but by the time he heard approaching footsteps, he was cold and numb.

"How's he doing?" Bobby asked.

"Still hasn't moved." Dean's face twitched, his jaw clenching. "How long is this stuff supposed to take?"

"I'm sorry, son," Bobby said softly. "We got no way of knowing. Let's just get him back to your room where it's warm. I think you could use some warming up, too."

Dean sighed. The simple act of moving seemed an impossible task at the moment. He finally managed a nod, and shifted Sam just enough so he could stand, and then pull his brother up with him. But his legs buckled under him almost instantly and he collapsed back to his knees. His falter jarred Sam, but Dean caught him before he hit the ground.

But something did hit the ground.

"—the hell?" Dean looked down, trying to see what it was.

"Look!" said Noli, bending to pick up one of the branches that had attached itself to the younger Winchester.

Allowing a spark of hope to ignite inside him, Dean brushed a hand over his brother's chest. The vines detached easily, leaving tiny red spots that looked like tick bites.

"It is working."

Noli had put Dean's thoughts into words. And he certainly needed to hear them. "Attaboy, Sammy," he said softly, and mussed the mop of already tousled hair.

"Now can we get out of here?" Bobby asked with mock impatience.

"Yes, please." Relief was washing over him, sapping his strength. But there was still a long way to go.

Dean eased Sam down to the forest floor, then allowed Bobby to help him stand. Together, they lifted Sam, in a two-person rescue carry. It would be a rough hike back to the Impala, but Dean didn't care. The only weight on his shoulders now was one he didn't mind bearing.

**oooOOOooo**

Something…there was something he was forgetting. Something he needed to tell...tell…

"Dean?" He barely recognized the sound of his own voice. There was a horrible taste in his mouth, one that made him gag. The retching set off a chain reaction of pain through his body. Images began to appear in his head: trees and dark eyes and blood, so much blood—

And then they were gone. Someone steadied him until the coughs receded. He reached up with a shaking hand to grasp a forearm, making sure it was real.

"Sammy? Hey. You okay?"

Somehow he managed a nod against material. He opened his eyes, but everything was a blur. A hand patted his back.

"Can you sit up?"

He nodded again, even though he wasn't sure he had the strength. But he wouldn't have to do it alone. Even as the thought crossed his sluggish mind, the arm across his chest was lifting him upright. Then the grip shifted and he was eased back onto a mound of pillows. Sleep.

"Sam? Sammy, look at me."

He was exhausted. All he wanted to do was go back to sleep. But…

"Sam!"

That was…that was… He opened his eyes. Even through the haze he knew. "Dean."

Dean scrutinized his eyes, then sat back with a sigh. "Well, that's a relief! Dude, those red eyes were giving me the creeps." He smiled.

Dean was smiling. He hadn't smiled that genuinely in a long time.

"Hey, you all right? You need anything?"

Sam thought a moment, then said, "Water?"

"You got it."

There was already a glass on the nightstand. As Dean put it in his hand, making sure he had a solid grip on it, Sam noticed the tiny red spots and ligature marks on his arm. The shock seemed to clear his head a little. Further inspection revealed similar marks on his other arm and on his chest. What the hell? "Dean? What's going on?"

His brother helped him lift the glass to his lips so he could take a long drink. It felt wonderful on his parched throat, and even better as it washed away the horrible taste in his mouth. When he had drunk his fill, he demanded an answer.

"Dean?"

His brother's eyes narrowed. "What's the last thing you remember?"

That was a good question. What was the last thing he remembered? "Uh…I had a headache…"

"Seriously?"

"Yes, I had a headache."

"No, seriously, that's the last thing you remember?"

Okay, something was up, but his brain was too muzzy to figure it out. "Yeah. Why? Dean, what happened?"

Dean's mouth opened and closed like a fish. Then his eyebrows shot up and he shrugged. "Not much."

Sam didn't believe it for a second. "I had this nightmare…about this tree…and there was blood and— That was just a nightmare…right?"

His brother stood. "Look, we both need some sleep. Just…get some rest. We'll talk about it tomorrow. Okay?"

After a moment, Sam nodded. He really didn't have the strength to argue. It was just…what the heck had he needed to tell Dean? He closed his eyes and tried to think. The light went out, and he heard Dean climb into his bed. Sam relaxed into the pillows and was almost asleep when it finally hit him.

"Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"I don't think it's a Tirisuk."

"…Goodnight, Sam."

The End


End file.
